The Last Witch

Rona Munro

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781848420724
• eBook ISBN: 9781788501453
• Topic: Literatura
• Subtopic: Arte dramático británico

A play about the last woman to be executed for witchcraft in Scotland, The Last Witch explores the psychological rifts that can divide close communities and drive families apart.

Dornoch, northern Scotland, 1727. In the claustrophobic heat of summer, a woman's apparent ability to manipulate the power of land and sea stirs suspicion. Janet Horne can cure beasts, call the wind and charm fish out of the sea. Or can she? Her refusal to deny the charge of witchcraft puts her in dangerous opposition to the new sheriff. Her defiance threatens not only her own life but that of her daughter...

Rona Munro's play The Last Witch is based on the historical account of Janet Horne, the last woman to be executed for witchcraft in Scotland.

The play was commissioned by Edinburgh International Festival and co-produced by the Festival and the Traverse Theatre Company. It opened at the Royal Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh, in August 2009.

ACT ONE

Scene One

Near Janet Horne’s house – a midsummer afternoon.

The house overlooks the hill behind and the shore below.

It is a warm summer afternoon, a rare northern treat.

JANET is standing soaking in the sun, her face turned up to the sky, muttering to herself. HELEN, her daughter, enters, she watches her mother for a while.

HELEN. Mother?

JANET goes on muttering.

Mother, what are you doing?

JANET stops. Looks at her daughter in exasperation.

JANET. Why can’t I be a crow?

HELEN. Mother, there’s no peat in the stack.

JANET. Why not? The charm’s easy to see, to imagine.

She looks at the sky, raises her arms.

(This is what she’s been muttering.) Make my fingers black, make my bones grow to thin feathers, let me rustle and shine with dark-blue, oily light. Crumple me into a pinioned, prickling ball and throw me up onto the wind!

HELEN. The fire’s out! JANET. Oh, of course it is!

Of course it is.

Staring up into the clouds a moment longer.

And the wind is sulking in some cavern in the sky. It won’t come out for all my calling.

Bad dog.

Bad, bad, bad, bad dog.

HELEN (quiet). You can’t call the wind.

JANET. What are you talking about? You’ve seen me do it. A hundred times.

HELEN. Once.

JANET. A score of times. What’s the matter with you?

HELEN says nothing.

There was something in the air today. A warmer air. Reminding me of what I could be. I thought to raise a hot wind and fly upon it.

HELEN. I’d like to see that. I’ve never seen you fly.

JANET. Nor will you. You decided to fix your eyes on the ground the first time you stood up and you’ve scarce looked up since. Have you?

I’m surprised you know the sky’s above you. You don’t look up even when it’s raining on your head.

HELEN. I watch the sky.

JANET. And can you fly in it? No. You’ve a head full of dry beans and a voice full of moaning like a wet wind.

(Imitating.) ‘There’s no peat, there’s no bread, there’s stones in my bed…’

If I hadn’t pulled your head out of my own body I’d doubt you were mine.

A beat.

HELEN. I don’t think you’ve ever flown.

JANET. Well, you would think that.

HELEN. Why?

JANET. Because I’m your mother. I can do the great magic… I just need to remember… another wind…

She’s searching the air with her fingers.

HELEN. Make me pretty, then.

JANET. Mary MacKenzie believes in me. I cured her pig. You can’t deny that pig’s grunting happier since I put my hand on it.

HELEN. Make me beautiful.

JANET. You are beautiful.

HELEN. To you. What use is that?

Make us a fire and a pot of soup to hang on it.

JANET. That’s your job.

HELEN. There’s no peat in the stack!

JANET. Who’s stolen our peat?!

HELEN. I don’t know. Someone. There was scarce a crumb of mud left anyway.

JANET. I’ll charm the truth out and then I’ll curse them. That peat’ll burn so dark and drear the smoke’ll shrivel their lungs.

HELEN. No you won’t.

JANET. What’s the matter with you today?!

A beat.

HELEN. What are we going to eat?

JANET. Honeycomb.

HELEN. Oh aye? And where are we finding that?

JANET (unconvinced). I’m going to become a bee.

A beat. They look together over the hills, the distant sea.

Why are you so restless?

HELEN. I’m hot.

A beat.

William Mackenzie wants me to sit in his cart when we go to the peats.

JANET. Ah! And here’s the matter. I’ve told you.

You’re not for William Mackenzie.

HELEN. Why not?

JANET. Until you’ve the sense to know that, you’re not fit to be let out of my sight. You’ll stay here till you learn you’re not fit for anyone within a hundred miles of here.

HELEN. So what will I do then? When I’ve learned that?

JANET. You can’t learn that. Look at you, bursting out your dress but still rooted here like a bush of gorse… Can’t put your hand on it, can’t dig it up…

A beat.

Can you hear them? Droning in the heather bells.

HELEN. It will be months before we go to cut the peats again anyway.

JANET. I can hear them. I can see them shimmering in thousands over the hill…

HELEN. You don’t know how it is at the peats. We’d have no fire all winter if the Beggs didn’t take me to cut it. I cut our warmth. I travel out under a sky full of ice.

JANET. Silver wings. Peppery little bodies full of sharp sting. I can feel what a bee is all right.

HELEN. I didn’t close my eyes all night. There was someone singing in the darkness behind me. I looked up at the stars and there were different hilltops between me and their sparkle.

JANET. Mouths like little black straws, sucking the sweet heart of every flower. I can taste it.

HELEN. I was somewhere else. I was on the other side of the hills. Cutting peat in the cold morning and bringing it home. Two days under another piece of sky.

JANET. Shatter myself into a thousand sweet buzzing pieces. Make me a swarm of bees.

HELEN holds out a little silver knife.

HELEN. I cut this out of the darkest earth, damp, black soil, crumbling with sleeping fire. I found silver. It might be fairy silver buried in the hill, I found it… Look…

JANET doesn’t even hear her, murmuring to the sky.

(Putting the knife away.) Fine then. You’ll never know what I have. I shan’t tell you. Ever.

JANET. Nothing.

The words aren’t the charm. The words don’t make it happen.

HELEN. William doesn’t mind my hands…

JANET. Mind!? Why should he mind!?

All he’s thinking is they work well enough to push a hoe! If he saw you as you should be seen he’d never be thinking about your hands at all! Why are you so stupid you’ll never learn that!? God, I wish I’d never dropped you out at all! Keeping me here, stuck in mud that can’t even grow weeds with no one to talk to but rocks and a daughter that’s stupider than a lump of cow shite!

A moment. HELEN is too upset to answer. JANET softens at once.

Oh… my tongue’s straight off the whetstone. I didn’t mean it, pet. Come here.

JANET puts her arms round HELEN. HELEN lets herself be comforted.

I’m sorry.

HELEN. All right.

JANET. Elspeth Begg only loves you because she lost her own daughter. You know that?

HELEN. Y...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Contents
• Original Production
• Characters
• The Last Witch
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information